


Just R

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Admiration, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, Angst, Arguing, M/M, flatmates, how do you media type?, paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire argue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just R

Enjolras had paint on his hands and up his arms. At first glance, his room-mate R had thought it to be blood; the bright scarlet trailed in thin dribbles across the pale canvas of skin like a seeping wound. The young blonde was in a fluster of energt, suddenly leaping across the room and grabbing Grantaire by the coat sleeve as soon as he’d set a single foor inside their shared apartment, filling him with a sharp jolt of excitement although leaving him little time to question what the urgency was for. Enjolras started babbling about Grantaire’s art studies and how he could help.

 

“‘Cos I’m nearly done, but I need an opinion, and I think it’s missing something, but I don’t know what.”

Enjolras dragged him by the wrist into the kitchen. It was littered with sheets of paper of different sizes with various design concepts scrawled on them: march chants, routes, shirt logo concepts. There was poster paint smeared and lathered over every avaliable surface and every white space; shades of red and blue with streaks of white and black. Now R looked his friend up and down in better detail, he noticed there was also paint on his face and his red vest and in the curled tips of his fair hair. Despite the mess, the politics student’s eyes were burning with the passionate enthusiasm synonymous with Enjolras’ ideas of rebellion and revolution. Grantaire smiled inwardly; he was fond of those eyes.

Enjolras snatched up one of the sheets and held it up underneath his chin proudly. The writing was in sloppy but vibrant cherry red.

“Blood of angry men,” he smiled.

R nodded. “Catchy.”

“You think? Do you like it? I think it’s eyecatching, grabs you right by the morals. It’s showing how we really feel, who we really are, what’s really fuelling this bullshit society. Not the decisions made by pompous dictators posing as democrats, but the hard labour performed by the real working class; us ‘average’ people who are forced into this oppression by inequality and injustice!” the fire and power had travelled to his voice and his words as he spoke fast and sharply, every syllable throbbing with confidence, every letter spat.

He punched the air. A thin film of perspiration glistened damply on his skin. His chest heaved, pupils dilating from elated exhaustion. Every knew nothing got Enjolras’ blood pumping more than stories and plans of uprising and success. He may have had bouts of cynicism, but that didn’t quell his list for a good debate and power. Often, R pondered over why Enjolras chose to stick with him. He could have lodged with Combeferre, or Marius, with whom he was closer, but no. They didn’t even get along well one-hundred percent of the time; while Enjolras was active, Grantaire was lazy. Enjolras’ activity would come and go in waves; one day he would be gripped by comradeship and he’d surround himself with the boys from the ABC cafe and give speeches and have the occasional sip of wine and be his usual charasmatic (but no less intimidating) self. Other days, however, he would tumble in to a stupor, seized by focus that turned him into a marble machine, frantically scribbling in one spasm, sitting in pensive concentrating silence the next, thinking and plotting. There were days he wouldn’t eat, nights he wouldn’t sleep, weeks he wouldn’t sit without squirming and pacing repeatedly, mumbling and murmuring to himself like a mad man. He was the light in the darkness on rainy afternoons, the morning flecks of sunlight, the fire that burned on cold winter stretches. Grantaire wasn’t like that.He didn’t possess the extreme vitality for anything. Even when he was painting he was not completely focused, his mind wandered to trivial matters: occasionally his canvas would be a mess of half-hearted, delusional sketches that vaguely resembled his model, other times more like a androginous ogre. He knew Enjolras would scowl at him for that; he frequently did. Something ached faintly in his mind. He would always see himself as inferior.

“You’re quite the poet,” R remarked at last, cooly, with another lop-sided smile of re-asssurance.

“Better than Marius, huh? I read his emails to Cosette,” Enjolras laughed abruptly and shook his head. “Lovesick fool. And the worst part: she goes along with it and replies!”

The subject of love stung R, especially hearing his friend’s views on it. He shrugged. “Some girls like that stuff.”

“Not the subject I was asking you about,” Enjolras shot down with the wave of his hand, silencing the art major who glanced shamefully down at his shoes. “I asked you for your honest opinion, but you still haven’t given it to me,” Enjolras reminded him, with a touch of impatience in his tone.

“Do you still actually want to hear it?” R arched an eyebrow, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Are you going to take it into consideration or are these fantastical notions of rebellion clouding your ability to realise not everyone thinks like the dazzling Enjolras?”

A flicketr of hurt darted across Enjolras’ face and his shoulders, usually squared and strong, drooped. His eyes lost their willful fire and instead smouldered with intense scrutiny and mild curiousity.

“You don’t like it,” it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a true statement. It was just Enjolras jumping down his throat to conclusions yet again.

Grantaite but his tongue and shook his head.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” he tried, but could feel his vain attempt at defense sputtering and dying inside of him.

Enjolras, who had perched himself up on the counter during his rant, dropped down. His entire aura had turned from red to black. He was suddenly very solid and stable, not carried away by ‘fantastical notions’. He met R’s eye for a moment and tilted his head before glancing away. His back straightened, making him appear taller.

“No. I understood and I understand fine,” the fine hairs on the back of his neck were practically bristling with hostility. “I asked for your honest opinion and you sure let me know it. Thank you, Grantaire,” he added, with so much sincerity, Grantaire was caught off guard. He meant the gratitude? But…why?

Enjolras ran his hands under the kitchen tap and dried them the best he could be bothered to. He didn’t move, only stared at the painted words.

“Enj-” R tried, but Enjolras suddenly moved away, palming his mobile phone from his jeans and skimming his thumbs over the keyboard.

“I have a march to plan,” he explained roughly. “Do you mind giving me some peace to do that in?”

“Enj, c’mon.”

“No, I’ll just go to Combeferre’s. He’s got more space, anyway. “

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras froze, fixed eyes on Grantaire, expectant. He chewed the corner of his mouth, turning it a flushed pink. His girlish face was stoney.

“What? Another opinion you want to share? Is this red top too unflattering for your artistic eye? Is my love for the cause not ‘wild’ enough for your drunken Friday nights cavorting with insolents and strange girls you find lounging around the streets by the river, who you say ‘spread so easy’? Maybe because I’d rather appreciate the beauty of France rather than drink it’s wine so deeply, you can’t even distinguish between the basic Metro maps from the artwork in the Louvre?

“Perhaps I should leave you to live in this apartment alone, since we are clearly incompatible in our beliefs and interests, despite me trying to get over my intital despise of your wasteful character as I struggled to cope with your changes over the years from valued friend to stressful annoyance who doesn’t realise the talent and worth he has. Could you survive on your own? Without a job, could you pay the bills? Could you write your art history essays without my help? A passionate fool like me is just another nerd to you, huh?”

A bleak, cold dread spread through Grantaire as Enjolras’ words sank through his skin. He was stunned. He opened his dry mouth, but didn’t know any words. Enjolras was staring at him, the pain and anger that manifested around him terrifying.

“Don’t call me Enj. Call me ‘Apollo’ and I’ll punch you. It’s not cute. I do not like it. My name is Enjolras. And I will never call you R like the others do,” he was growling. He loathed the nicknames. His fists were shaking. He suddenly smirked at Grantaire’s expression. “Oh. I’m sorry. You gave YOUR opinion. I didn’t see why I couldn’t disclose mine.”

“What did you want me to say?!” R yelled suddenly, desperate. The sight of the red paint was like a knife in his gut.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!” Enjolras shouted, verging on screamed. He swallowed thickly and folded his arms across his chest, blinking. “Grantaire…”

Grantaire cleared his throat and removed his hands from his trousers. “Well. I’m not going to just stand here and let you insult me just because you’ve chosen to be an arrogant dick about some dumb guy’s opinion, which you didn’t even actually let me give, about a stupid sign I actually like. Would you just quit over-reacting all the time? Not everything’s a fucking freedom march.”

They lapsed into tense silence. Enjolras was livid, his fury a near visible glow around his head like a halo. That made R feel worse; he couldn’t burn bright with emotion, no matter how hard he tried: he generated fog. He lacked colour.

Their stand off crackled between them. Enjolras was staring at him, eyes wishing death on his roommate, but R couldn’t make eyecontact. He wasn’t strong enough. Suddenly, Enjolras’ foot buzzed against his leg. He scrambled for it and read the message on the screen. He swept past Grantaire towards the door.

“Where are you going?” R asked, quickly.

“I said before. There are more important lost causes I need to attend to,” Enjolras replied, tongue heavy with rage. He opened the door and left the apartment with a satisfied slam that shook the frame.

Grantaire stood alone in the quiet, the presence of Enjolras and his words ringing in his ears as loud as a cymbal. His breathing had sped up, so he slowed it, purposefully, to regain control. No. It was time to lose it. He was sick of keeping things underwraps. He could burn.

He glowered at the posters on the worktop and contemplated ripping them apart, tearing them into the smallest shreds imaginable. He dropped his gaze to the cupboard under the sink. He hid his booze in there. His fingers itched and his tongue pulsed.

Enjolras.

Why did he put so much faith in a marble statue of a man? He didn’t know if he had more ice in his heart or his eyes. Why, how could he ever have felt his chest flutter anxiouslt in the company, at the mention of the cruel bastard, ever think that he’d get his head out of his ass long enough to notice his adoration, his feelings. What caused him to dream of the ignorant idiot, to mumble his name in deep sleep, to flush red at sometimes the most inappropriate moments just thinking about him: his hair too long for a boy’s, his eyes too passionate for a lad who hadn’t experienced the wars he spoke of, his hands, his beautifully crafted pale hands, elongated fingers, knuckles small, smooth bumps under the skin, hands too soft for anything but making banners and greeting other and-

Grantaire stopped thinking about Enjolras’ hands. The familiar cringe crept up across his neck and torso, crawling southwards.

He crouched and opened the cupboard, selecting a dusty bottle of beet. He had resisted the cupboard for long enough. A part of him, a stupid, senseless part of him thought that Enjolras would keep him sober, would keep his own hands from quivering. But not anymore. He popped the cap of the bottle, brought the cool rim to his lips, and shivered with anticipation and despair. Screwing up his eyes, he jerked his neck back and drank, rocking back on his hunches and sprawling on the kitchen floor, welcoming the haze of drunkenness.

Enj, if only you knew… he mused, the alcohol stinging. Then he grunted and laughed an ugly laugh. Fuck you, Enjolras.

 

**

There was still paint on Enjolras’ hands when he returned several hours later. The first coat had dried, but there was a fresh, wet coat on them too. His expression was stoic, his hair was unruly. The apartment was in darkness as the lights were off and dusk had fallen outdoors. He came into the kitchen quietly, slightly puzzled and on alert, the stillness of the flat making him nervous.

He found Grantaire slumped on the floor, snoting raspily, head bowed on his chest. An empty bottle rested by his left side. Panic shot through Enjolras, and then a swell of pity. He had calmed. He knelt by Grantaire and lifted his chin, checking to see if he’d thrown up. Eyeballs rolled restlessly beneath their lids. Enjolras sighed.

“Grantaire, you son of a…” he bit his lip. “I come to apologise and this is how I find you? Why am I not surprised?” But he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry anymore.

Grantaire opened his eyes. Bleary green blinked up at concerned blue.

“Call me R,” he murmured boozily, squinting through the headache.

“Alright then, R,” Enjolras whispered fondly, hooking his arm under R’s to lift him, but he wouldn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” R grunted. “I was an ass.”

“You were, yes.”

“But so were you. You were an ass. A massive, sexy ass.”

“Grantaire…” Enjolras couldn’t help crack a smile, but there was an unease in his voice.

“R,” his roommate corrected and leaned forward, smoothing his hand through Enjolras’ fair curls, kissing the corner of his lips gently, the same spot the young student would bite and nibble on when they argued.

Enjolras froze for a moment before suddenly being overwhelmed with childish excitement. He touched R’s face, leaving behind paint that was as red as blood and black as tar. They breathed each other’s air, sticky and humid and close.

“Just R.”


End file.
